Holding onto the Lost Youth
by Alice Inamorata
Summary: She didn't know when it began; all Rachel Berry knew was that she was pushing away those that cared about her the most. The sad thing was she didn't care about them...she didn't care about herself. Boy!Quinn. T for language.


**Authors Note: This is dedicated to my boyfriend, Noah, who has shown me the light and who I love with every ounce of my being.**  
><strong>Don't forget to follow me on tumblr: aliceinamorata . tumblr . com <strong>

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><p>Holding onto the Lost Youth<br>Alice Inamorata

In the mirror she looked; her hands running over her tanned skin so slowly that she felt every bump and hair. She turned to the side; a gentle bump was within her lower abdomen – normal. A swallow. She noticed her weird hairline and pulled her fringe to the side in hopes to conceal it. Her hands looked old. Her nails were always bitten from nerves that school placed upon her crumbling shoulders. She felt a tear fall down her cheek. "I'm so ugly…"

Reality: she was gorgeous. A beautiful nose and jawline that was crafted from the Lord himself. Tanned skin that complimented her deep brown eyes; long, cascading brown hair that flowed beautifully when the wind raked it's fingers through it. She had the most soft skin that anyone could ask for, and she smelt like rain during a hot summers day. But Rachel Berry didn't see that. She only saw the imperfections.

Her calves had too much muscle; she absolutely hated her feet. Her nose was too big and she wanted to get a more accepted nose. A big forehead, large eyes that were brown; brown was too normal. She swallowed and stepped into the shower.

Hands once more, sucking in her lower abdomen when she didn't need to. The tears blended in with the hot shower water that burnt her body; she hoped that the hot water would burn away every last piece of her that she didn't want: the nose, the jaw, the small bumps over her body and her old hands. She scrubbed her body until it felt perfectly clean; clean of all sin and imperfections.

Then she looked in the mirror.

They were still there. Every last one of them.

She sat down on her bed; looking up to the ceiling. She looked down every so often to see if her abdomen was flat, but her breasts got in the way. She cupped her breasts, trying to make them look bigger, smaller; should I get a breast reduction? Implants?

Her legs smooth and silky, overdosing with lotion to keep them looking presentable. She slathered on lotion on her whole body, hoping maybe she would get a compliment for something tomorrow morning for school. She knew it wouldn't happen; no one cared.

No one cared about small Rachel Berry.

It was six at night. She slept until seven in the morning when her fathers had to pry her out of her bed.

Another animal sweater, skirt, tights and sensible shoes. She awaited the snide comments as she walked through the halls.

"Hey look, there's a girl from To Catch a Predator."

"Damn Berry, that school girl thing doesn't work for ugly girls."

"Get a nose job!"

"Hi."

Rachel looked out from her locker, looking at the boy that stood there before her. Quentin Fabray, her boyfriend of six months took her hand and pulled her close. He ran a hand over her perfect strands and kissed her head. "Where have you been?"

"School work," Rachel replied, her voice void of emotion. "I need to maintain my 4.0 GPA. I can't go out all the time, Q." She shut her locker, "Sorry."

"Hey, come back here," Quentin called, grabbing Rachel's hand, "What's up with you?" He tried to hold her close but she pushed him away.

"Nothing, it's my business. Just leave me alone." Rachel pulled away from her boyfriend, walking down the hallway. A red slushy was thrown into her beautiful face; it dripped down her white sweater, staining it like blood on the battle field. The jocks laughed before Rachel heard Quentin shouting; lockers began to slam as bodies were thrown into them. Students gathered around the fight, cheering for whom them sided with. Rachel didn't let the tears fall; she let the knife remain in her throat through the day.

For crying was pointless; it didn't solve anything.

She was stronger than that.

Rachel was silent the whole day; only speaking if spoken to. Even if someone did try to talk to her, Rachel abruptly stopped speaking. People assumed she was a bitch, but in reality, she just didn't want to speak to anyone. She wanted to be alone in the dark. Her nose was pushed into her books, scribbling notes mercilessly. On the inside, she didn't care anymore; she didn't care about her GPA, about college or about her future. She did know she wanted Quentin; she knew that he was gazing at her across the room in Spanish. But she ignored him. He reached towards her as she went to leave the classroom, but she dashed away before he could touch her.

_What is up with her…_ Quentin thought, dashing after her in the hallway. He found the tiny young woman at her locker, pushing books in and taking some out. "What the hell is up with you?"

"Is there something wrong with wanting to be alone?" She snapped, "Forgive me, I didn't know it was such a crime."

"What the…" Quentin looked around before lowering his voice into a hiss, "What the fuck, Rachel? What is wrong with you?"

"It's none of your business." She replied, ice stabbing daggers at Quentin's heart. "Just leave me alone."

She began to walk away, leaving Quentin in the fog of her emotions. But Rachel wouldn't cry…it was weak.

She never knew where it began. Was it the rude comments? The fact that others always put her down? She never believed Quentin when he complimented her and kissed her, telling her that she was the most beautiful woman on the planet. Rachel did nod and smile, replying sweetly with a 'thank you,' but that was the polite thing to do. The impolite thing was to shoot down the comment and laugh, stating that she didn't believe what he said.

The words began to be implanted in her head: that she's not good enough, that she'll never succeed. That she'll never get out of Lima and that Broadway was just a joke. That brunettes were ugly and blondes were beautiful. That every single woman had to look like they had posed in Playboy or look like a Victoria Secret model. Rachel didn't look like that; she had a small chest and a boyish shape.

She hated herself more than anything else on the planet.

The summer time came with a burning vengeance. Rachel spent her time in her air conditioned room, staring at the ceiling until the late hours of the night. Her summer work rested upon her desk but it wasn't visible since the lights were dark. Quentin kept persistent; texting her and telling her that she's beautiful. He knew what was going on, and that Rachel was falling into the pits of darkness. He felt like he had to pull her out before it was too late, but he knew that it was already too late.

Why didn't he notice sooner? Say something?

He too had fallen into a depression.

So to Rachel's house he drove, opening the back door with the spare key the Berry men had told him about. The house was eerie; no sound of a television, no motion of life around him. He walked up the steps and turned to Rachel's door: it was the one with the golden star, but he almost didn't know which one it was because the golden star was gone.

"Rachel?" He knocked on the door briefly, opening it slowly. It creaked loudly.

The room was totally dark and he thought he saw a large bump in Rachel's bed. He sat down and felt that it was her; his hand ran over her hair, his fingertips running along her long neck. "Baby? Are you asleep?"

"No.." She said. It was one of the first words she had said to him in weeks. "Why are you here?"

"I wanted to check up on you. You've been acting oddly the past couple of weeks." He felt her strands slip through his fingers and he leant down, pressing a gentle kiss to her cheeks.

They were wet.

"Have you been crying?"

"No." She replied quickly, her hand moving to her cheeks to wipe away the tears. She wouldn't admit to crying. "I'm just sweating."

"It's cold in here, Rachel."

"Look," Rachel leant up, reaching forward to turn on her lamp. "It's none of your business what I do and when I do it. So why don't you just leave?"

"What the hell!" Quentin yelled, standing up off of Rachel's bed. "Why are you being so fucking rude?"

"Because I don't want anyone trying to meddle in my business!" Rachel shouted back, kneeling on her bed and placing her hands on her hips. "It's my fucking life!"

Quentin was taken aback, "What happened to you…" he whispered, "What happened to my sweet girlfriend…?"

Rachel shook her head, "I don't know…" she began to choke back tears, her throat feeling raw and begging to be let loose. She wouldn't cry. "I don't know…"

"You're pushing me away." Quentin walked forward, trying to take her hand but she refused. "What's wrong?"

Rachel didn't answer. She looked away.

"What's wrong, Rachel?"

"I'm ugly…"

Quentin sighed.

"And this is exactly why I don't tell you anything!" She shouted, sitting back down on her bed. "You get tired of it. You just sigh at me and keep telling me the same thing over and over -."

"But you're fucking thick, Rachel. You're so damn stubborn; you don't listen to anyone." He sat down beside her, "But I knew that when I fell in love with you."

"I've been horrible to you…" she whispered, "I've had horrible mood swings, I've pushed you away," she ran her hand over his, "I've been…"

"Sad?" Quentin asked. Rachel nodded. "I'm going to tell you something, Rachel." He pushed her hair out of her face. "To me, you've always been the most beautiful woman out there. Not any one of those cheerleaders that are stick thin. To me, you're beautiful. I tell you every day, but you don't believe me. I will continue to tell you you're beautiful until you eventually believe me." She looked at him.

"I don't care if it's tomorrow, two years from now, when we're married or when we're having children…even if we're old with grey hair and swinging on a porch swing," their eyes met, "I will make you believe me. And when I do, I know my job will be done."

Rachel shook her head, "You're going to have to tell me a whole lot of times because I'm not beautiful."

"But you are," he smiled at her, their faces inches away from one another, "This Rachel I see right now isn't the Rachel Berry I fell in love with. But I know she's in there, but you're too afraid of getting hurt to let her out."

Rachel nodded.

"And these mood swings, the fact that you're ignoring everyone…" he pushed her hair over her shoulders, "That you're not eating…this isn't you, Rachel. You never pass up a meal."

"How did you know I'm not eating?"

"I haven't seen you at lunch for a week."

"Oh…" she whispered. "I've been studying."

"Making excuses," Quentin raised an eyebrow, "This isn't you, Rachel. This isn't the Rachel I want to see."

They were silent, Rachel looking down at their intertwined hands.

"I want my old girlfriend back." Quentin said, looking down as well. "I want my childish, drama-filled, laughing and beautiful girlfriend back to the way she was…because this isn't who I want."

"So," she sat across from Rachel with a pad and pen, looking at her like a test subject. "Why are you here Miss Berry?"

"Because I've been acting abnormally…" She whispered, looking down at the tissue between her fingertips. She rubbed it between her thumbs, making her skin warmer. "I…think I may be depressed."

"Now no one admits that so freely," the therapist said, crossing her legs, "Have you spoken to someone that made you come to that revelation?"

Rachel nodded.

"Who, dear?"

"My boyfriend…" she looked at the therapist, "I'm doing this for him. And well, for me as well, obviously."

"And why are you doing this for him?"

She felt a rush of relief wash over her as the tears bubbled over in her eyes. She cried, loudly, letting all the emotions free from her body. They were laid out in front of her, vulnerable as could be. She detested feeling this way, but she knew it was for the better. As her body quaked, she looked up to the therapist with eyeliner streaked down her cheeks.

"Because I love him. And I don't want to lose him."


End file.
